


His compass, his true north, his lodestone

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese follows Harold Finch</p>
            </blockquote>





	His compass, his true north, his lodestone

**Author's Note:**

> I was not too sure where this was going - still not sure where it ended up...
> 
> A lot of longing - absolutely no smut - a game of cat an mouse - the title says it all
> 
> Have not written a word in over 4 months... maybe this will be the swift kick in the butt my muse needs to get me going. Loads of ideas for fics but no gumption to sit and write... must be the weather - my story and I'm sticking to it!
> 
> Oh, and please note that magnificent banner Managerie made for it - it describes artfully what the fic depicts - and I thank her profusely for that!

 

On the odd day when there is no number, Harold Finch will dismiss John Reese and give him the rest of the day off. He will then leave the library with Bear in order to run errands, or so he tells John Reese.

On those days, John Reese follows Harold Finch. He follows him everywhere. He follows him to the street where she lives, to the park where she paints, to the museum or libraries she frequents. He follows him to coffee shops, restaurants, hair salons. He follows Harold Finch because he cannot do otherwise. Harold Finch is his compass, his true north, his lodestone. His heart breaks as he watches, and still he follows.

Harold Finch hides behind the big maple tree in the park, the one not too far from the pier where she sits and sets up her easel. John Reese hides behind the bank of telephones that stands a few hundred feet behind the big maple tree in the park. He sees Harold Finch’s hand twist the dog’s lead, rub his neck, adjust his hat. He watches Harold Finch move from one foot to the other, stretching sometimes, when the pain is too much. He would love to go to him and place his strong hand gently on Harold Finch's lower back, move him around and walk him back to the library. He wishes she did not exist, wishes she would move away. And yet, he knows this would hurt Harold Finch, and he is sure that whatever light lives in Harold Finch's eyes would dim, so he feels like a heel for thinking such thoughts. And so he stays, and watches Harold Finch with his heart in a million pieces.

When Harold Finch finally decides he has had enough, that there is nothing else he could possibly do, he turns and walks back. John Reese hides behind the bank of telephones and watches the forlorn face of his friend, the sad eyes, the down-turned mouth bracketed by deep creases, the suspiciously wet eyes. He hears the hollow-sounding voice speaking softly to the dog and again he wishes he could go to his friend, gently take his arm, tell him that everything would be OK, that he is there, that he wants nothing more than to help him forget. But he stays behind the bank of telephones, watches Harold Finch walk barely a few feet from him, and resumes following him. There is really nothing else he can do.

Harold Finch usually stops at a coffee shop to pick up a cup of Sencha green tea which he will bring back to the library. And so John Reese abandons the task he has set for himself and walks ahead, arriving at the library before Harold Finch does. He takes off his heavy overcoat in the winter, unbuttons his jacket in the summer, and sits on the old, cracked leather sofa across from his friend’s desk and pretends to be ensconced in a fascinating piece of literature.

A few minutes later, Harold Finch’s feet ring hollowly on the stone floor, accompanied by the clickety-click of Bear’s nails. In the winter, he hangs his overcoat wincing as he brings it up to the hook that is set too high for him to put it up comfortably. Every time, John Reese wants to get up and hang the overcoat for him, but he doesn’t. His friend would not understand and might even be offended by this breach of their long-ago elaborated etiquette. In the summer, Harold Finch may, if the weather is very hot, undo one button of the vest he wears under his jacket. His shirt stays buttoned under the tie that bars it in place. At the base of his neck his hair sometimes sticks up a bit and John Reese again reins in his need to get up and gently pat it down. Harold Finch sits at his computer, and has a sip of tea, his fingers starting to fly on the keyboard.

“Were you able to run all your errands, Finch?” asks John, as though the thought just occurred to him.

“Yes, thank you Mr. Reese; it was a very productive day, I should say,” answers Harold Finch, his mouth twisting a little, his eyebrows lifting as though he is surprised by that same question that is asked of him every day that there is no number. No one sees the way his eyes soften as they land on John Reese who pretends to be reading his book, his eyes down-cast so Harold does not see the immense need that flows from them.

Harold Finch is also a master at disguising and redirecting his gaze but he has very piercing eyesight, and a pair of glasses fitted with a tiny reflector that allows him to see behind him – perfect for a paranoid billionaire always afraid of being kidnapped even when he knows very well his associate is hiding a few hundred feet behind him.

“I think I’m going to turn in Mr. Reese, it does not look like the machine is going to send us a new number tonight,” says Harold Finch an hour later.

“That’s good, Finch. If you have no problem, I think I’ll head on home too then,” says John Reese, every time, and so he goes down the stairs but instead of going home, leans against the library’s outer wall, waiting for Harold Finch to go home himself, so he can follow him, his compass, his true north, his lodestone.

Harold Finch comes down the stairs slowly, the dog walking gingerly at his side, ready to buffer him should he miss a step. The dog knows John Reese is there and will come if there is a problem. Harold Finch then locks the heavy library door and starts to walk home, slowly, safe in the knowledge that John Reese is following him... his watcher, his guardian angel, his protector.


End file.
